


still got a lot of fight left in me

by writerofberk



Category: Treasure Planet (2002)
Genre: Blood, Gen, Swearing, Violence, Whump, let's be honest jim just gets whumped seven ways from Sunday i'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:54:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22805206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writerofberk/pseuds/writerofberk
Summary: “Look, lad,” Silver broke in, “I dunno who you’re lookin’ for, but I can tell you, I ain’t it. Never sailed on a ship called the Legacy, and never went chasin’ after no fairy tale. Sorry.”
Relationships: Jim Hawkins & John Silver
Comments: 13
Kudos: 136





	still got a lot of fight left in me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [1stLieutenantTwitchy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/1stLieutenantTwitchy/gifts).



Even all the way in here, closed up behind all the miles and miles and miles of cold metal bars, Jim could hear the shouts and the roars of the crowd, clear as a bell in his ears— _go on, go on and do it, go on and finish it, what's it waiting for, what do you think it's waiting for_ —and he knew, if he could hear it, the thing locked in the arena here with him could hear it, too. And any second now, the thing locked in the arena here with him would listen. Finish him off. Go on and finish him off. Like this crowd wanted. Like this crowd _always_ wanted.

But that wasn't what _they_ wanted.

No. That was _never_ what they wanted.

Even when they had dragged him down into this hell—even when they had ripped him away from his ship, and his captain, and his friends, and his out-in-the-field Interstellar Academy drill—even when they had tossed him down in the dirty, cramped cage he called his own now, and locked up the little door with a shiny silver key, even when they had hissed _welcome to your new home_ through the bars, and _laughed_ at him, ice in their eyes and needles in their teeth, they hadn't wanted this, they hadn't wanted him to die.

They didn't _want_ him to die.

No. They wouldn't _let him_ die.

Not so long as he could still make the crowds shout and roar like that, not so long as he could still put on a show, not so long as he could still stand, not so long as he could still ball his hands up in fists, not so long as he could still clench his teeth and throw a punch and stride or stumble or crawl, if he had to, into the damn ring for another damn fight he knew he wouldn't win.

No. They wouldn't let him die. Not yet.

It had taken him a long time to really _get_ that. He had thought, for a long time—for every second of every hour of every day—he had thought, any second, they would get sick of it, they would get sick of him, the way he kicked and screamed and cursed at them, the way he spit and scratched and snarled at them, he had thought, any second, they would snap. He had thought they would pull out a gun, put twenty grains of solid metal in his skull, and _let them_ , he had thought, every time, rage and reckless defiance running and running and running like a river in his veins, _let them do it, let them try, let them try and kill me, I don't care, there is nothing they can say to me and nothing they can do to me to make me stop fighting them._

But.

That was the thing.

They _hadn't_.

They hadn't even _tried_.

And every time he kicked and screamed and cursed, every time he spit and scratched and snarled, they never tried, they never, ever tried, they hit him and they beat him and they _whipped_ him, even, lashed him, with ice in their eyes and needles in their teeth, and every time, he had thought, _this is it, this is the worst of it, this is as bad as it will ever get, and they'll never take it any farther than this, they'll never go any farther than this, they'll never even try, because they won't kill me and they won't let me die, so this is it, this is bad as it will ever get, it will never get any worse than this,_ but—

But that was just it, wasn't it? Because it _always_ got worse. And—hard truth Jim had picked up pretty damn quick in the past three months—it could always _get worse_. They wouldn't kill him, and they wouldn't let him die, and he knew that, but Christ in heaven, they could make him _wish_ he was dead, harder than he had ever wished for anything in the world.

All he could do now—all he had _left_ to do now, really—was to keep kicking and screaming and cursing, to keep spitting and scratching and snarling, to keep fighting, to just _keep on fighting_ , even if he could barely stand up on his own, even if it hurt like hell.

And so he did.

So he _would_.

The string of swollen, purple bruises from his last fight still ached like ice, dull and cold, under his shirt, all over his ribs and his back and his chest, and thick blood dripped, down into his eyes, onto the tip of his nose, onto the corner of his lip, from the line of stinging, open cuts the thing's last strike had left at his brow, and the sweat streaked down his temple in thin, burning-hot trails, and the rough, ragged breaths, in and out of his half-open mouth, ripped and wrenched at his lungs, raw and sore from all the dusts and gases and powders they had poured into him, all the things they had forced down inside of him, but all he could do now, all he had left to do now, was to fight, like hell, with all he had in him.

He couldn't get away.

He couldn't get out.

But he could fight.

And he could _keep on_ fighting.

So _he would._

The thing locked up in here with him—the _Panthera_ , the Handlers had called it, all big nose and small eyes and short legs and tough-as-all-hell hide—the _Panthera_ lunged at him, _on_ him, its lips pulled back in a furious, feral snarl, and it couldn't knock him down, it couldn't knock him over, he was already flat on his back, on the ground, but it dropped down on top of him, on his chest, and it opened its jaws and it hissed at him, in his face, thin, yellow-white strings of foam and saliva dripping from its long fangs. The spit flecked Jim's cheek, his brow, and he could see the gleam of its claws, sharp as cutlasses, a blinding glint in the light of the bright sun, over the ring, over his head, but he just sucked in a breath, he just lifted up his chin, he just clenched his empty hands up in fists at his side, and he just stayed still.

He could still fight. If he wanted to. He was strong enough, he was fast enough, to hold his own, to hit back, to do it, to give the crowd a show, to fight, he was strong enough and he was fast enough and he was _good enough_ to _fight back_ , but—

—but—

The drum sounded out, a hard and heavy beat, all around the arena, and so deep, the ground under Jim's aching, bruised body trembled with it.

They wouldn't let him get killed.

They wouldn't let him die.

"That will do," they said, in their cold and flat and colorless voice—only one of them, not all of them, but they all sounded the same, so it didn't matter, Jim didn't _care_ —and they clapped their bone-white hands together with a sharp _snap_.

The barred, bolted-up door, all the way on the other side of the ring, lifted up, and, just like that, the arena was open again, and it had ended, it was over, the fight was over.

The Handlers rushed in—the _Panthera_ let loose one last harsh, bitter hiss, its big and ugly nose barely inches from Jim's own, but the Handlers hauled it back and clamped its mouth shut with iron hands and iron arms, and stared down at the beast with iron eyes. Cold as the winter. Cold as a storm. Cold as all the rain and snow and ice back home on Montressor.

Yes, Jim could fight. In the arena. If he wanted to. He was good enough. He was strong enough. He could do it. He knew he could do it. He knew he could _win_ , even, he knew he could, he _knew_ he was strong enough, he _knew_ he was _good enough_.

But.

It was hard to hit the _Panthera_.

It was hard to hate the _Panthera_.

It was hard not to pity it.

It was hard not to pity all the others in the ring with him—all the others he had to face, all the others he had to fight, all the others they _made him_ fight, because _the crowd wants a show, the crowd wants blood_ , and that was it, wasn't it, that was all that mattered, the crowd, but all the others in the ring with him, all the others he had to fight, all the others they made him fight—all the others always looked so _scared_ , and _alone_ , and had the others all gotten ripped from ships and captains and friends, too, had the others all gotten ripped from homes, too, just like him, just like he had? Just like they had done to him?

Yes. Jim could fight. He knew that. He knew he could fight, if he really wanted to, if he really _needed_ to, but that was the thing. He _didn't_ need to. He didn't need to fight. He didn't want to fight. What the hell would that prove? That he could kick somebody else when they were already down? That he could go and hurt somebody who had already gotten hurt more than enough before _he_ had ever come here?

Fuck that.

Jim could fight. And he knew he could fight.

But that didn't mean he _should_.

The Handlers grabbed him, too—iron hands and iron arms, and up on his feet and out of the ring and past the wide, stone steps, and down the crooked path and back to his cage and back to _them_ , and _this_ —

_This_ was the battle he would fight. This one. Right here. With _them_. It was all he could do, all he had left to do, fight, and _keep on_ fighting, and so _he would_.

He would.

* * *

One thing was for sure. The fights raked in a lot of gold.

The fights _had_ to rake in a lot of gold, really, because the fights also _took_ a lot of gold, too, to keep it all up, to keep it all running—it had taken Jim about three seconds to catch onto _that_ , and even less to realize this meant they always had an eye out for new sponsors. For trust-funders. For silver-spooners. For have-everythings. For the clink and clatter of coins, the light rustle of silks and velvets and satins, the clack of high heels, the crackle of paper notes. The sounds of a rich bastard come to blow a little money.

Jim knew the sounds as good as they did.

They were on the lookout for a new sponsor again.

They hadn't dragged him out of his cage and lined him up with all the others for nothing—they never did a thing for nothing, he knew that now better than he knew the back of his own hand, better than he knew his own damn name, and he knew the way this would all play out, too, he knew _that_ better than the back of his own hand, too, he knew _that_ better than he knew his own damn name, too.

They had dragged him out here with all the others so they could show off the fighters. _Their_ fighters. The best, the victors, the champions, the biggest and the strongest and the fastest, they would show off the best, and they would smile with ice in their eyes and needles in their teeth and coat it all in sugar and spice and every-fucking-thing nice. So then the rich bastard, come to blow a little money, would take a good, long look, and Rich Bastard would go away with them, and Rich Bastard would talk with them for a long time, hush-hush whisper-whisper, and Jim would lay in his cage and strain to hear it, but he would never catch more than a word here and there, but they would say all the right things because Rich Bastard would go on and toss a couple shiny gold doubloons at the show, stick around for a day or two, see the fights from a front-row seat, and in the end, Rich Bastard would sail away in a brand-new, top-of-the-line ship on Dad's dime, away from this port and away from the fights and away from _them_.

Yeah. Jim knew the way this would play out.

He didn't even need to _listen_ , really, because he knew all the sounds—same as all the sounds from the last time they had done this, the last time they had gotten a new sponsor down here—the soft click of a sailor's boots on rough stone, and their voices, as they talked, their cold and flat and colorless voices, and little shivers and shudders still crawled down his spine to hear them, to listen to them—and the sharp clacks and snaps of metal, and the whirr and hum of gears and cogs and—

Wait.

Wait a second.

Gears and cogs? No. Hang on. That wasn't a sound from last time, and Jim could feel his mouth edge down in a little frown. Definitely not a sound from last time. No way. He would have remembered it—the quiet buzz and drone of mechanics could take him back home again, if he only let it, to the feel of thin wires in his fingers, to the soft thrum of the valves and engine, to the spin of wheels and sprockets, to the smell of smoke, to the bright flickers and flares and sparks, to all the times he had pulled his solar surfer apart, all in pieces, and put it back together again, from the ground up, or all the times Silver had plucked at the rusted iron screws in his leg, and the whole thing had hissed and rasped, and it really _did_ sound like that, didn't it—like a cyborg, like—like _Silver_ —

Jim peeked out from under his own, thick fringe of too-long hair—if the new sponsor _really_ was a cyborg, he wanted to see it, he wanted to get a look at the cyborg before the cyborg could get a look at _him_ , and God knew it would be a long minute before _that_ —he wasn't one of the best, one of the victors, one of the champions, they wouldn't show him off first, they probably wouldn't even show him off _at all_ —so he had a second to look—he had a second to see—

—to see the—

—the—

—big belly and broad shoulders and—

—and—

— _oh_ —

Jim's breath hitched, loudly, in the back of his throat. _Oh, God_. The browned face, and one eye twinkled with a soft, warm glow of pure gold, set deep in the dark skin, and _oh, God,_ he thought, over and over and over again, almost dizzy with the _weight_ of it—he had thought—he had just thought, he had just guessed it was any old cyborg, he didn't—he hadn't _really_ thought—he had _never_ really thought—he had never even _dreamed_ —but it was— _it really, really was_ —

"Silver?"

The name tumbled off his lips before he could stop it, before he could even _try_ , before he could even think about it—and he knew, if Silver could hear him, _they_ could hear him, he knew they _would_ hear him, there was no way they _wouldn't_ hear him, really, and they would be _so_ _furious_ with him. The minute this was over, they would drag him away, and they would beat him bloody, they would take the whip to his back until he couldn't stand up, but _he didn't even care_ , because it was _Silver_ , it was really, _really_ Silver, he was really, actually _here_.

The whole time he had been stuck here, Jim hadn't cried—from the second they had tossed him down in the cage and locked the little door, he had held his head high, his chin up, his jaw set, his teeth clenched, and his eyes dry as bone, even when they hit him, even when they shoved him down and kicked him so hard he couldn't breathe, so hard he threw up, because they could make him fight and they could make him bleed, but they _could not_ make him cry.

They _could not_ make him give up.

So he wouldn't do it. He wouldn't cry. He wouldn't let them take that from him. But _now_ , right now, _here_ , with Silver so close to him—God, he could reach out and _touch_ the metal fingers, he could step up and take the iron hand in his own—right now, with Silver so close to him, he felt his eyes burn and prickle and sting with hot tears.

And Silver—

Silver looked at him.

Silver looked at him for a long minute—for the longest goddamn minute in his life—just _looked_ at him, just looked and looked and _looked_ , and Jim could swear he would blow up, break apart, burst into a hundred pieces, if the old cyborg didn't _say_ something, now, _right now_ , right this second, right this _heartbeat,_ even, just— _just say something, come on, just say something to me, just tell me—just say—_

—well—he didn't actually _know_ what he wanted Silver to say, really. He hadn't gotten that far. But he didn't _have_ to get that far, right, he didn't _have_ to do that, he didn't _have_ to get that far, because—because any second now, Silver would do it—Silver would open his mouth, and he would say—

"Beggin' your pardon," the old cyborg tugged his black tricorn hat down a little lower over his eyes—the way he did all the time, back on the _Legacy_ , and Jim's throat pulled just a little too tight— "do I know you?"

_What?_ Jim jerked his head back up again, so fast he felt dizzy, and he had to play the words back again in his head, over and over and over, to make sure he had really heard it right— _do I know you, do I know you, do I know you,_ like Silver didn't—like Silver didn't even—

—like Silver didn't even _remember_ —

No, no, that was _crazy_. That was just flat-out crazy. No one could ever just _forget_ a day like _that_ , and it would be a cold day in hell before a _pirate_ went and forgot the day he had found a _treasure trove_. No. Crazy. Flat-out crazy. Silver remembered. _Of course_ Silver remembered. Silver _had_ to remember.

"I-It's—" Jim swiped and scrubbed at the dirt on his cheeks, the thick cover of grime all over his face—he hadn't looked in a mirror in months now, but he still looked like _him_ , right, he still looked like himself, didn't he? Didn't he still look like himself? He wasn't so filthy and bloody, he couldn't even be _recognized_ , right? So Silver _had_ to know him. Right? And if the old cyborg just looked long enough, hard enough, maybe, he would see, and he would _remember_. "It's _me_."

And—any minute now—Silver would know him. Right? Any minute now, Silver would look long enough, hard enough, and see _him_ , see past all the dirt, all the grime, all the filth and blood, and _see him_ , and _remember_ —if he only _looked_ , he would see all the days on the _Legacy_ looking right back at him—

"Mr. Silver?" _They_ cut in, all of a sudden, in their cold and flat and colorless voice—not _all_ of them, not really, it was just one of them, just one, but they were all the same, they all bled and blended and blurred into each other, one piece of shit after another, and Jim didn't care to try and pull them all back apart anymore. "Mr. Silver, I'm sorry, am I to understand you have had prior contact with this _human_?" Their eyes, dark as tunnels, dark as twin labyrinths, narrowed down to thin slits in their pinched-up, bone-white face, their brows arched up in a quiet kind of fury.

"No," Silver laughed— _he actually laughed_ —like it was so _stupid_ —like he couldn't even _believe_ — "no, no, this 'un? Never in my life."

_No_. Jim's stomach jolted. _No, no_ , that was _wrong_ , that was a _lie_ , Silver had _lied_ , Silver was _lying_ —cold day in hell before a pirate forgot a treasure trove, remember, so it _had_ to be a lie, right, that was it, that was all, that was all this was, one big, stupid lie, a story Silver had made up in his head, and any second now, he'd give it up, right, he'd give it up and he'd say—

—he'd say—

—any second now—

— _any second_ —

—but—

—but he _didn't_.

No, no, no, that was wrong, this was wrong, this was a lie, _cold day in hell before a pirate forgets a treasure trove, cold day in hell before a pirate forgets a treasure trove_ , but—but Silver hadn't—Silver hadn't said he didn't remember _Treasure Planet_ —Silver hadn't said he didn't remember the _Legacy_ —and _Jim_ wasn't a treasure trove, Jim wasn't a pile of gold and jewels, Jim probably wasn't too high on Silver's list of things to remember, but—

— _but did Silver really forget me?_

Just like _that_? Did Silver really just go and forget, just like that? So quickly? So _easily_? He couldn't blame the old cyborg if it was the treasure to come to mind for him first off—Flint's trove had been Silver's dream for Christ only knew how long, but—but was that all to come to mind? Was that all he remembered? All the gold? All the riches? Was that it? _Has Silver_ —a hard, heavy knot lodged up thick in the back of Jim's throat— _has Silver really just gone and forgotten me—?_

No. Jim shook his head. No, he _couldn't_ believe it, he _could not_ believe it, he could not _let himself_ believe it. Maybe he wasn't a treasure trove, a pile of gold and jewels, maybe he just wasn't the kind of thing a pirate would remember, but this wasn't any old pirate, this was _Silver_ , and Silver had _cared_ about him. Silver had really cared about him. Hadn't he? He had saved Jim back on Treasure Planet—he could have turned away, let him fall, let him die, but he _hadn't_ , he had given up every last glistening golden coin on that whole godforsaken planet, and he had saved Jim instead, and he had said _makings of greatness_ and _light coming off your sails_ and _glowing like a solar fire_ and _you're gonna rattle the stars_ , so he _had_ cared about Jim, right, he had—maybe he had even _loved_ —

" _It's me_." Jim lifted his head up a little higher, and he looked Silver full in the face. Straight in the eyes. Because Silver _had_ to remember. Silver had _cared about him_. Silver _had_ to remember. "It's _Jim_. From the _Legacy_. From the _RLS Legacy_. Jim Hawkins." Silver had to remember him. _Silver had to remember him_.

"I—ah—" Silver edged back a pace or two, and shook his head—his hat slipped a little, and his bright red bandana peeked out from under the wide black brim, "—I-I'm sorry, lad. 'T'ain't ringin' any bells."

No, no, Silver had to remember—Silver had to remember him—Silver had _cared_ about him—Silver had—Silver had—

But Silver only reached out his iron hand, and patted Jim on the shoulder, a little too fast, a little too hard. "Must have been a different cyborg."

No! No, that was wrong! _This was wrong_! This was _all wrong_! Silver _had_ to remember him! Even if he—and it would hurt less to get punched in the stomach than to think it, but Jim had to think it, so he made himself think it—even if he had never really cared, even if Silver had never really cared about him, even if he had just put on an act, put on a mask, and played the part, even if it had never really been real, he had still sailed on the _Legacy_ with Jim. He had still known Jim.

He had still found Flint's trove with Jim at his side.

So he had to remember. A little. Right?

"But—" Jim pushed out, because Silver had to remember, a little, "—but we—we found—" —Silver _had_ to remember— "—we _found_ Treasure Planet. Remember?"

"Hush, now," _they_ said, and they didn't sound so cold and flat and colorless now, but sharp and angry, "that's quite enough. Any further lies, and you will be punished."

"N-No—" Jim shook his head, "—no, but—but Flint's trove—?" He couldn't look away from Silver. Even if he wanted to. Even if he tried. "F-Flint's trove, it—it exploded, remember, Flint, he had rigged it to blow up—so we had to use the—the portal to get back, remember, w-we had to use Flint's portal, a-and we couldn't save the treasure, remember, it all fell into the lava too fast, but—but _you_ —"

" _Treasure Planet_?" Silver echoed blankly—and, oh, Christ, he looked like he had never even heard the name in his life. He looked like Jim was _crazy_. "Real imaginative lad, ain't you?"

"No, no," the hard and heavy knot was back in Jim's throat, and he couldn't swallow around it, he could barely _breathe_ around it, "no, I didn't _imagine_ it!" _This was wrong_! Silver would never forget Treasure Planet! He had dreamed of the place from the time he was Jim's age! Even younger! "Y-You were _there_! We sailed on the _RLS Legacy_! Under Captain Amelia! And we found it! We found it, and you worked as the cook, on the voyage, and _I_ was the—"

"Look, lad," Silver broke in, but he sounded— _sad,_ almost— "I dunno who you're lookin' for, but I can tell you, I ain't it." The tight, tired lines in his brown face softened, just a little. "Never sailed on a ship called the _Legacy_ , and never went chasin' after no fairy tale." He patted Jim on the shoulder again. "I'm real sorry, boy."

Jim's insides turned to ice.

_Silver really didn't remember him_.

Not at all.

Not even a little.

Was he really so easy to forget?

No, no, but Silver had asked Morph to _stay_ with him! And Silver had _saved_ him! Silver could have turned away, let him fall, let him die, but he hadn't! He hadn't! He had saved Jim! And he had said—he had said _makings of greatness_ —and _light coming off your sails—_ and _glowing like a solar_ fire—and _you're gonna rattle the stars_ —

Was it all a lie? Had he just filled Jim's head with a whole lot of empty, pretty words because it was _easy_? Because Jim was _there_ to be lied to? Because Jim was _naïve_ , and _gullible_ , and _stupid_ , and so ready to believe—so _desperate_ to believe—he could ever actually mean something to anybody, so desperate to believe he could ever actually _matter_ —?

"I'm sorry, Mr. Silver," the soft click of sailor's boots on rough stone sounded out again—they were walking away—with _Silver_. "I can assure you, it will be _severely_ punished for the inconvenience it has placed on you."

"Ah, no, no—" Silver waved a hand, "—no need for that, don't bother. Just got a few too many fancies in that head of his, I reckon. No need for drastic measures!"

_Too many fancies in that head of his_ , and if Jim looked down now, right now, he knew he would have nothing but a black hole where his heart should be. Or maybe a supernova. Since his chest had just collapsed in on itself.

Silver didn't remember him. Silver _really_ didn't remember him. At all. How fast had he forgotten Jim? How fast had he put Jim behind him? How many miles had he put between them before he decided Jim hadn't actually meant that much to him after all? Had he just painted a smile on his face and pretended, that whole time in the hangar, just so he could _get away_? Just so Jim wouldn't turn around and turn him in? Just so he could take what he wanted and _leave_? Just like _everyone else_?

Was it all been a trick? A lie? A _game_? Had Silver ever meant a single word he said on the ship at all?

Was Jim _really_ so easy to _forget_?

* * *

The whole time he had been stuck here, Jim hadn't cried.

But—after it was all over, after Silver had left, after they had dragged him away, after they had beaten him until he was bloody and whipped him until he could barely stand and snarled _you could have lost us our sponsor, boy,_ and tossed him back in his cage—he curled up, a little tighter in the cramped, dark crate, tucked his legs up a little more, and he cried so hard, he couldn't even breathe.

* * *

They put Jim back in the ring the next day.

They hauled him into the arena—they _had_ to haul him into the arena, really, because if he could barely stand on his own two feet the last time around, well, it was nothing to _this_ , here, _now,_ with the lashes of the whip still bleeding like hell on his back. The flow had slowed a little now—the crimson rush had eased from a flood to a trickle to a drip—but his shirt still stuck to the skin, here and there, and if he moved too fast, the scabs all over his spine burst and broke open and bled, all over again. After the way they had worked him over yesterday, it'd be a damn miracle if he could ever stand up on his own again.

It'd be a damn miracle if he lived to see tomorrow.

They locked the barred door at his back— _click click click_ , the bolt slid and snapped into place, with a sound like thunder in his ears—and he stumbled into the middle of the ring, into the center, and that—the thump of his worn boots on the stones, _thud thud thud_ , that was like thunder, too. He swallowed, and it scraped, in the back of his throat, rough and dry like sandpaper. They hadn't let him have any water since yesterday, and the hot sun made him feel really dizzy, and really, _really_ tired. His mind moved too slowly, thick and fuzzy, and his thoughts felt like thick syrup, in his brain, sticking to the inside of his pulsing, pounding skull.

He lifted his head—he was looking at the ground, at his boots, _thud thud thud_ like thunder on the stones—and he glanced around the arena, the stands, the crowd—

— _oh—_

His breath snagged sharply in the back of his sandpaper throat.

Silver was up there.

_Christ._ Silver was _really_ up there, with _them_ , at their side, at their _right hand_ , in a front-row seat, his brown nose barely an inch from the cold metal bars stretched out in a spidery iron dome over the ring, and Jim's blood pounded in his ears, and his _heart_ pounded in his ears, too, and he burned, inside, all over, everywhere, and _why did he do it, why did he lie so long back on the_ Legacy _, why did he do that, why did he pretend to care about me, why did he pretend to care about me if he was just going to go and forget about me, what was the point, why would he use me like that, why would he do that to me_ —?

A snarl sounded from the other side of the arena.

Jim had barely ripped his eyes away from Silver—and he didn't _want_ to, he didn't want to look away, he wanted to _look_ at _Silver_ —before the thing in the arena with him, the thing he had to fight today, it charged him.

He caught a quick flash of thick grey fur, of bright yellow eyes, of long white teeth—the _Lupus_ , it was the _Lupus_ , that was the one in the ring with him this time—just seconds before the thing actually got him, pinned him, flat to the ground with its strong, black-tipped paws. Just like the _Panthera_.

The scabs all over his spine burst. Broke open. Bled, all over again. He could feel it, hot and wet, under the ripped, torn shreds and scraps of his shirt. Christ, he had hardly lasted a minute. That was a new kind of pathetic. Even for _him_. If there was anything lower than rock bottom, he was pretty sure he had just hit it. _Hard_.

And—even all the way in here, closed up behind miles and miles and miles of cold metal bars—he could hear the shouts and the roars of the crowd. Clear as a bell in his ears. _Go on, go on and do it, go on and finish it, what's it waiting for, what do you think it's waiting for_. Just like last time. Just like last time, and all the other times, just like _all the other times_ , just like every damn time the Handlers had dragged him down here and locked the barred door at his back, _click click click_ , with a sound like thunder, and left him here to fight or die, just like last time, just like all the other times, just like all the other times before—but—

But _Silver_ was here this time. Silver was up there, in the stands, and he shouted and he roared with all the rest, and he stared down at Jim through the miles and miles and miles of cold metal bars and he bellowed _go on, go on and do it, go on and finish it_ , with all the rest, with the whole crowd, and that _wasn't_ like last time. That wasn't anything like last time. Silver hadn't been here last time. Silver hadn't been up there in the stands, to shout and roar and stare down at him, Silver hadn't been there to bellow with all the rest, with the whole crowd, not last time, and what would he do if this really wasn't like last time?

What would he do if they changed the rules of the game this time? What would he do if they really _did_ let Jim die in here? What would he do if they _didn't_ stop the fight? What would he do if the drum _didn't_ sound out its hard and heavy beat to end the match? What would he do if they stood back and just let Jim get killed here in the ring?

And, God, did Jim _really_ even need to _ask_? At _all_? Did he really need to even waste the time it took to _wonder_ about it? He knew what would happen if he died in here, he knew it good and well, better than he knew the back of his own hand, better than he knew than his own damn name.

Silver wouldn't care.

Not at all.

Not even a little bit.

He would stay up there in his seat, in the stands, and he would smile the cold, plastic smile he had on his face right now, right this minute, and he'd let out a big, loud cheer, and he'd clap and he'd shout and roar right along with the rest, and he'd shake their hands and he'd thank them for a good show, and he'd toss a couple shiny gold doubloons at them, and he would disappear. He would sail away. He would take what he wanted, and he would _leave_. Just like last time. Just like he had last time.

And _he wouldn't care_.

Give it a few days, and he wouldn't even remember.

Not at all.

Not even a little bit.

_Good._ The anger seared up, bright and hot as a sun, in the back of Jim's throat. Good. Fine. That was good. That was great. Let him leave. Let him take what he wanted and leave, just like last time, just like he had last time, Jim didn't need him here, Jim didn't want him here, Jim didn't ever want to see him again, not ever, not for a second, let him go, let him leave, let him disappear, let him sail away, let him sail away and away and away, just like he had last time, just like he always had and just like he always would, because that was what he did, wasn't it, he took what he wanted and he left, just like—

— _just like—_

Jim lifted a hand, and he slammed a dirty, white-knuckled fist straight into the _Lupus'_ filthy, bloodstained muzzle. It wasn't Silver's face, but it was going to have to do.

The _Lupus_ tossed back its big, grey head, and let out ahowl of pain and fury, but Jim pushed himself up on his feet again, his whole hand aching and pulsing from the punch. _Good_. That was good. He could fight. He knew he could fight. He knew he was strong enough. He knew he was fast enough. He knew he was _good_ enough. He knew he could fight.

So why _shouldn't_ he fight?

* * *

They didn't let him die.

And they didn't let the _Lupus_ die.

The Handlers dragged him out of the arena—iron hands and iron arms and iron eyes, up on his feet, and out of the ring and past the wide, stone steps and down the crooked path and back to his cage.

Back to _them_.

No. They didn't let him die.

They wouldn't let him die.

Not so long as he could still make the crowds shout and roar like that. Not so long as he could still put on a show. Not so long as he could still stand. Not so long as he could still ball his hands up in fists. Not so long as he could still clench his teeth. Not so long as he could still throw a punch. Not so long as he could still stride, or stumble, or crawl, if he had to, into the ring.

For another fight he knew he wouldn't win.

No. They wouldn't let him die. Not yet. Not just yet. They tossed him back in his cage, and they locked the little door, and they pulled the thick, black cloth cover down over the metal bars, to block out all the light, to block out the whole around him, but they didn't kill him. They didn't let him die.

Not yet.

Not just yet.

* * *

Jim jerked awake, in the dark and in the cold and in the quiet, his own breath a frenzied, frantic rasp, in and out, in and out, of his half-open mouth, and his shaking hands fisted around the straw scattered all over the bottom of his little crate, and his chest burned, and his skin tingled. He couldn't see a thing outside the cage, with the dark veil draped over the thick bars, but he could _hear_ it, even past the black cloth—whatever had ripped him from his sleep—pretty rude, it always took him forever to fall asleep in this shithole, but at least the whirr and hum of gears and cogs wasn't the worst thing he had ever had to wake up to in here, and—

—and—

Gears. And cogs.

The whirr and the hum of gears and cogs, the quiet buzz and drone of mechanics, the soft thrum of the valves and engine, the hiss, the rasp—like—

— _like—_

The black cover lifted off, and fluttered to the ground beside the cage.

And Silver looked down at him—no, actually, Silverdropped down in a low crouch, right in front of the small, dirty cage, and he leaned in, to look through the thick bars and he—

— _he said_ —

—he _actually said_ —

" _Jimbo_."

It was like a hard, heavy stone had just suddenly slammed down into Jim's stomach. His insides ached with the impact. _Jimbo_. That name. That stupid, _stupid_ name, God, he had _hated_ it, from the second Silver had said it, that first time, down in the dim and too-warm galley, he had hated it with every last thing he had in him, and Silver—

Jim snapped his eyes open.

_Silver remembered it._

Jim scrambled up, on his hands and knees, in all the straw and filth and waste in the cage with him, and his heart jumped up and down and up again, in his chest, in his ribs, but the back of his throat still seared, bright and hot as a sun, bright and hot as a star, bright and hot as a supernova. Silver remembered that name. Silver remembered that stupid name. Silver remembered _him_.

And how long had it taken him to even do _that_?

"What the hell are you doing here?" Jim wished he could stand. He wished he could look Silver in the face. Actually, no, he wished he could spit in Silver's face, really, but one thing at a time. "What do you want?"

Silver winced. "Long story, lad." He hit a knob on his metal wrist, and his iron fingers folded up into a long, thin—thing—in the dark, Jim couldn't see it so well, but he knew it wasn't a hand. "Bit of bad luck, is all. No point yappin' 'bout it now, we don't got a lot o' time on our hands, so best be quick about it—"

"No," Jim shook his head, "no, _what_ are you _doing here_?" He tapped the thick, metal bars, to make sure Silver got it. He didn't care if the devil himself had dragged the old cyborg into this port—he was a pirate, he would always be in pretty bad company, but if he thought he could just swagger up to _Jim_ , and go on like nothing had changed, like he _hadn't said_ —no, no—Jim tightened his lips, and narrowed his eyes at the old cyborg outside. "Come to rub it in?" That wasn't really Silver's thing, actually, bragging and gloating and stuff like that, but, hey, Jim had thought _forgetting_ and _not caring_ wasn't really Silver's thing, either. Look at the way _that_ turned out.

Silver frowned. "Rub it in?" The warm, golden glow from his metal eye dimmed down to red, and his dark brow pinched up in a scowl. "No, ya _twit_ , I'm here to _get you out_!" He held up the long, thin thing on the end of his arm, and waved it around—oh, a _lockpick_ —it was _a lockpick_ — "I ain't 'bout to up and leave you here!"

" _Aren't_ you?" Jim snarled, his skin on fire, his chest pulled tight. "Thought you'd never met me? Thought it 'didn't ring any bells'? Thought it 'must have been a different cyborg'? You're sticking your neck out pretty far for a perfect stranger." He scowled at the pick. "What makes you think I _want_ your stupid help?"

"Oh, come off it, lad," Silver huffed, and he slipped the pick into the rusted bolt, on the cage door, "don't be an idiot. You can barely stand up. You won't last the week if you stay here."

A bitter little laugh slipped out of Jim's mouth, short and sharp—oh, so, _now_ you care all of a sudden—but he never got the chance to spit it out before the bolt clicked, loudly, in the thick silence of the night.

Silver pulled the door open.

Jim knew he should get out. He knew he should leave. He knew he should just swallow his stupid pride and step out of the cage—crawl, if he had to, if that was what it took, on his hands and his knees, out into the open air again, he knew he _had_ to, he knew Silver was right. He was a half-dead wreck already, his skin smeared with his own blood and speckled with dark purple bruises, his whole body black and blue from all the fights, all the times they had hit him, all the times they had held him down and beat him, and he knew it could get worse.

It could always, _always_ get worse.

They could always find a way to _make it_ worse.

He would be even worse off in a week—in a _day_ , even, if they still wouldn't give him any water tomorrow—but—

"What about the others?" Jim looked around, at all the other cages and crates, all covered up with the thick, black cloth over his own, before he turned his glare back on Silver. "The others are way worse than me. I can't just leave 'em here." His knuckles still ached from the only hit he had landed on the _Lupus_ , and the shame bubbled up, like acid, in the pit of his stomach to think about it.

Silver scowled. "The _others_? Jimbo, I ain't takin' 'em in to _raise_. We can come back for the rest, if you're really set on it, but we gotta get _you_ out first."

"No." Jim pushed himself up, out of the cage, on his feet—his legs trembled, but he didn't fall down, and he was pretty sure that was the seventh wonder of the universe. "I'm _not_ leaving them here."

"Use your head for once!" Silver's cybernetic eye flashed red again. "If you don't get out o' here _now_ , you won't even _be here_ to _get out_!"

"Don't act like _you_ give a damn," Jim snapped—he didn't know he was going to say it until he did, until the words just tumbled out of his mouth, in a rush, in a flood, even. "You know, since you couldn't be bothered to, you know, _remember me_ until about ten minutes ago."

" _Remember you_?" Silver echoed, his eyes wide and round as dinner plates in his brown face. "Lad, I—!"

Jim's knees buckled.

He grabbed, wildly, for the wall, for the cage, for the thick, metal bars, to try and haul himself back up, to keep himself off the floor—with his bare, scabbed-up back and bruised ribs, he knew it was going to hurt like hell when he hit the ground, and if they heard it, they would come running, and he'd _never_ make it out of here, and he'd get Silver tossed in with him, too—

—but—

—but he _didn't_ hit the ground.

"Easy, _easy_ , lad!" Silver slipped a strong, warm arm around his shoulders, and lowered him down to the ground in front of the open cage. "No sudden moves just yet, Jimbo, you look like you're 'bout to pass out."

"I'm not," Jim said, immediately, over the rushing and roaring and ringing in his ears, louder than the crowds in the stands had ever gotten, and he tried to blink away all the little black spots popping up and bursting, in front of his eyes. "I—I'm fine."

Silver's mouth edged down in a frown. "We'll see 'bout _that_ ," he said, grimly, and tapped his fingers lightly on Jim's shoulder again. "C'mon. Best get you out of here."

Jim shook his head—it was hard, his skull felt very heavy all of a sudden, _swollen_ , almost, the thin skin stretched tight over his pounding temples—and he skimmed his tongue over his dry, cracked lips. "No, no, wait, the—the others—" he pushed himself up, with a wince, on scraped, calloused palms, "—we gotta—we gotta get the others out. We can't just—we can't just leave them—"

Silver's frown got bigger. "We don't got time for 'the others'. Maybe you haven't noticed, lad, but we hardly got time for _you_."

"No, we—we _can't_ —" Jim blinked away the black spots again, "—the others will _die_ if we leave them here." He tried to look up at Silver, to find the old cyborg in the swirling mass of blots and blotches in his eyes. "They'll _die_ , Silver."

Silver clenched his jaw, and his brows snapped low in a dark scowl, and for a second, Jim thought he was going to get up and leave, just leave, just walk away, say _fine, have it your way, then, stay here and rot, for all I care, I forgot you once, I can forget you again—_

"All right," the scowl never left Silver's face, "all right, then, fine. We'll get 'em all out."

* * *

It was really cold in here. Maybe it was the rag Silver had soaked in the small wooden bowl of freezing water and dabbed all over Jim's bare back. Or maybe it was the actual hellfire Silver had rubbed into the open, bloody cuts—a salve, Jim knew, just a salve, but Christ, it had _hurt_ , maybe more than the whip itself—or the crisp, white bandages Silver had stuck on the skin.

But the old cyborg had said, over and over and over again, until Jim could say it back to him by heart, he had said, _you know you gotta get all that cleaned, lad, you know you gotta get all that gunk out o' there 'fore it can start healin'_ , you know that, he had said that and said that and said that right up until Jim had finally just let him do it already.

That was what Silver had said, and that was _all_ Silver had said.

Because, for the last hour and a half now, the old cyborg had kept his mouth snapped shut. The only sounds he had made so far were the soft whirrs of his metal arm and leg, the splash and slosh of the water as he wet the rag again, the pop of the cork in the Hellfire Salve bottle, the light rustle of the bandages as he wrapped them around Jim's back.

No. Silver hadn't said one word.

Would he? Would he actually _talk_ to Jim? Just once? In this _millennia_? Or had he said all he had to say back there, with _them_ , had he already said all he had to say while Jim was still in a cage, with six feet of solid metal between them?

Would he _ever_ say anything to Jim again?

No—Jim shook his head—no, that was fine, this was fine, this was _just fine_ , because he didn't _need_ Silver to _talk_ to him. He didn't _need_ Silver to _say stuff_ to him. Hell, it'd be okay if Silver just dumped him in the nearest port and sailed off and left him there. That'd be okay. That'd be fine. He didn't need Silver. He didn't need to see Silver ever again.

He would go home and he would _forget about Silver_ , even, he would just forget about Silver, because Christ knew Silver was just going to forget _him_ , so why should _he_ —?

"Jimbo?"

In the dead silence of the little room, Silver's whisper sounded like a scream, and a little jolt went off in the pit of Jim's stomach. He clenched his shaking hands up in fists on his knees.

"Back in that port—" the overturned crate Silver had made his seat creaked loudly—he had stood up—and his metal leg thumped heavily on the wood as he circled around, and stopped right in front of Jim, "—back in that port, I told you I didn't know you."

"Forget it," Jim said, too fast, and his stomach pulled up in a tight knot and his skin burned and prickled and he dropped his eyes down to his own knees. "Just forget it." He wished _he_ could forget it. He'd give up everything he'd ever had if he never had to remember the way Silver had looked at him and—and _said_ —

"But I _never_ thought—"

Why couldn't he just forget it, why couldn't Silver just forget it, why couldn't Silver just—?

"—I never thought you'd take it _serious_."

Wait. _What?_ Jim jerked his eyes back up to Silver. _Take it serious?_ No. That was wrong. That was wrong, but—but _take it serious_ , and did that—did that mean—?

— _did that mean—?_

"I never thought you'd believe it. I thought you _knew_. I thought you'd have figured it out." Silver leaned in and settled his broad, warm hand lightly over Jim's fist. "That lot back there in that port would _never_ have let me get near you if they knew I knew you."

_Oh_.

Hope burst up like a fire in Jim's chest, and it burned so bright, it hurt, it actually _hurt_ , and he didn't know if he could believe it, if he could _trust_ it, if he could trust _Silver_ , but it—it _made sense_ , it made _a lot_ of sense, it added up, it evened out, didn't it, and if it did all that—if it did all that, he could believe it, right, he could trust it, right, he could trust—?

"—and I _had_ to get you out o' there, I _had_ to get near you if I wanted to get you out o' there, so I said what I had to say to get 'em off my tail—"

"You—?" Jim didn't mean to say it, but it just fell out. "You _meant_ to get me out? The whole time?"

"What else would I have stayed 'round for?" And Silver said it like it was the simplest thing in the whole world, like _suns are hot_ and _the stars shine_ and _water is wet_ , like it was a thing everybody in the universe should just _know_ —

And, oh, God, Jim's heart had just lodged itself all the way up in the back of his throat and his hands would never ever stop shaking, ever, but—but he had to—he _had_ to _ask_ —

"You didn't forget me?"

"Oh, Jimbo," Silver said, like _this_ , here, was the simplest thing in the whole world, like _suns are hot_ and _the stars shine_ and _water is wet_ —like it was a thing everybody in the universe should _just know_ — "how could I _ever_?"

**Author's Note:**

> for 1stLieutenantTwitchy!! happy birthday!! 🎉💚🎂🎁🎈


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